Not long after I began dating my boyfriend, I remember a walk together on a sunny Sunday afternoon, up Ontario from my D.C. studio apartment to his house on Euclid St. This was the walk during which I spilled my guts -- airing dirty little secrets, hidden neuroses, bad habits and really anything and everything (almost) I would never want to expose to someone with whom I shared a new and intense attraction. But there was logic to this madness; on some level I believed that if he was still interested early on -- with full knowledge of the baggage I carried -- there was less to fear as things moved forward. If he rejected me then, well, I would have saved us both some time and future heartache.

I find myself in a similar spot as I start writing this first blog entry: fighting an urgent desire to plaster my insecurities, self-doubts and those ever-present neuroses at the top of this page in large and foreboding letters -- giving you, reader, a chance to click the back button and move on to something more entertaining (I can waste hours playing with the flexible dates section of Travelocity, planning imaginary trips to places like Lima or Vladivostok). Perhaps this time I'll resist the urge to stave off the heartache.

I study painting in Queens. Most Monday nights you will find my Ukrainian painting teacher, arms crossed, standing behind me as I paint, watching my hand as I reach for color and hesitatingly move the brush across the canvas. Through a thick accent he almost barks, "Don't afraid!" He'll shake his head and I can feel his bewildered embarrassment by the meekness with which I use those same tools he has such an intimate and free relationship with. He'll step up to me and repeat again, "Don't afraid, don't afraid," and then show me how it's done.

"Don't afraid." I am not afraid of imperfection. I can take criticism, even rejection. The problem is, I want it to be on MY terms. To put myself out there -- whether painting or writing a blog -- risks exposure on everyone's terms BUT my own. The problem with a need for control and an instinct for self-preservation is, of course, stagnation. No risk, no movement.

So here goes. No qualifications; no disclaimers.

I will paint. I will write. You will watch. And I won't afraid.